


are we out of the woods yet?

by cosmicwritings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Mentions of minor character deaths, Post-War, coffee shop AU, forgiveness ???, there's literally no one else in this fic apart from them yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:03:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6515860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicwritings/pseuds/cosmicwritings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She learns forgiveness in the way it hits her with startling clarity. Maybe it's time to live again. DM/HG, post-war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	are we out of the woods yet?

**Author's Note:**

> aka the coffee shop au no one ever really asked about

They meet accidently at first.

It's only barely a year after the battle, and neither feel as detached from it as the rest of the Wizarding world assume. Rather, it's still as fresh in their minds and both hate it.

She thinks it is ridiculously cliché, and he thinks it is so typically Granger, that they both bump into each other in a coffee shop. Her excuse is that she had been to the coffee shop for ages now, so it really isn't her fault that they met again. Apparently, she frequented it often straight after the war; presumably because it's quiet and unheard of, and anyone there that recognises her just really doesn't care.

She asks him once why he entered the coffee shop in the first place when he complained about reconciling with her, to which he was stumped for a moment and replied, "I don't bloody know."

It's a terrible day the first time they talked to each other in nine months. She doesn't really hate days like this, per se, but she doesn't find anything she likes about it either. There's only a drizzle of raindrops that patter against the windows and a gust of wind blows in every time the door opens. She's sitting in her usual spot, the one right by the door so she can look out the window, and she spots his blond hair against the dull grey scene out of the corner of her eye. She thinks nothing of it at first; he's not the only one with blond hair, even that shade of blond. It's not until she looks up from her parchment fully to look out the window, does she realise that, actually, he is the only one who has that particular shade of hair. 

Though there isn't an umbrella shielding him from the rain, his robes seem dry even from here. An easy enough Impervius charm, she thinks warily and she thinks back of the times that she did the same spell over Harry's glasses for his Quidditch matches, grinning because that was such a long time ago now and so much is different from then. 

She is subconsciously watching him, her quill tapping on her parchment, and she sees him walk down the street, before veering in her direction. He hasn't seen her yet, she's sure of that, and she's so startled that she only just manages to hurriedly scribble something on her parchment just as the door swings open and he walks in.

The blast of coldness makes everyone in the room shiver and he goes up to the counter for a cup of coffee, throwing down a sickle carelessly and scanning the room for a seat. Immediately, she turns her head away, leaning forward so her hair blocks her face and pretends to keep writing.

"If you're trying to hide from me, your hair is not doing a very good job of it," his voice says suddenly to her right. She jumps and lets out a small sigh, but pretends to continue writing for a moment longer before swinging her hair back to look up. By this time, he has taken a seat at the table next to hers, though he's watching her with mild amusement.

"Malfoy." That's all she says, and it comes out with another sigh.

"I'm surprised we haven't spoken in so long," he deadpans.

They remember (if vaguely) the last time they held -- well, a conversation, sort of. It was at his hearing, a couple of months after the war. As part of the Golden Trio, she was obliged to go to his hearing so Harry could vouch for the Malfoys, more specifically Mrs. Malfoy. Though Ron had not outright gone against them, he had ranted to the other two countless times that they didn't deserve to be let off, even if Narcissa did save Harry's life. She -- Hermione, that is -- decided she did not want to be given a choice in the decision. Neither strongly against nor for the punishments against the Malfoys, she rather just sat through the hearing. The only time she really did give her opinion was quickly at the end, when asked to justify any of their crimes, and she added that they looked, so she thought, unwilling when she was brought to their house during her torture. The influence Harry had alone was enough to let the three Malfoys get off easier than they should have; probation for a year, house arrest and no magic for two months. All she remembers them saying to each other directly was an awkwardly civil, "Thank you", and nod.

"A good thing, then," she says with a snarky eye roll. "What are you doing here?"

"For a cup of coffee, obviously," he replies and lifts his cup to his mouth.

She purses her lips and doesn't say anything. Instead, she makes a point of turning her back on him as she leans down to write again (for real, this time).

After a while of absolute silence, with the exception of the scratching of her quill, Hermione looks up curiously to see if he had left. Actually, it's quite the contrary.

"Are you staring at me, Malfoy?" she says, aghast. She becomes suddenly aware of how loud she is and looks around quickly, but no one pays them any attention.

"No," he says, scowling. "I was trying to see what you were writing, since you seemed so firm on ignoring me."

"We're not friends, Malfoy, we're not even on civil terms. I can ignore if I want to," she replies crossly. Her eyebrows furrow together.

"I didn't say we had to be," he tells her simply, but he doesn't say anymore and she remains confused.

Still, she doesn't ask him what he means and she returns to her writing, shaking her head slightly. They don't speak again, as he just drinks his coffee and she just writes. Once he's done with his coffee, he doesn't tell her, but gets up and leaves, and she finds herself watching him go. He doesn't even glance back, and their first interaction in over nine months doesn't even involve an argument.

***

He drinks his coffee black, she notices quickly without realising. Honestly, it's not her fault that she knows. Ever since that first time, he enters the coffee shop she is sat in every lunch. It's not a set time, and she doesn't know why, but she's almost grateful for that. A set time would almost be too... Intimate. He doesn't say anything for the first few times, except for the odd word or two, and he doesn't sit at her table either. He sits on the table next to her; more often than not, it is usually empty but, when there would be a wizard sitting there already, he would patiently wait standing up before taking the seat again once they're gone.

"Why do you even need to sit next to me?" she says when she sees him standing there, waiting for an elderly witch to pack up her things. "What is there to do?"

"I watch you write," he says and she doesn't mention that he doesn't even know what she's writing.

And then, one day, he just sits opposite her. It's been a few weeks, probably months, since he first visited, and she genuinely thought this was going to just be the same until he slid into the chair on her table.

"Excuse me?" she says first, her quill poised as high in the air as her eyebrows.

"Yes?" he responds nonchalantly.

"You didn't ask me if you could even sit there."

"Didn't I?" he says and his tone is light. He leans back in the chair and takes a sip from his coffee.

She looks at him suspiciously for a moment, but she doesn't make him move, and they guess that's progress in it, itself.

***

It's been three months, nineteen days, when they have their first big argument. Actually, they are rather surprised it took that long anyway, but that's beside the point.

"What are you writing?" he says one time, and he's sitting opposite her again and sipping his coffee.

"It's none of your business," she tells him. It comes off as rude and annoyed and defensive, all at the same time. They're not meant to talk; it's part of their unspoken agreement.

"I just want to know," he replies haughtily.

"Well, you don't get to." Because this is hers and he's not allowed to know and, Merlin, why couldn't he have just stayed quiet?

"Why not?"

"Because," she starts off, the quill dropping out of her hand and the notebook closing firmly shut. "Because you don't get to! Because we are not close enough for you to ask me that and it is none of your business."

"You would think sitting and sipping coffee together for three months would count for something."

"We aren't friends, Malfoy, it doesn't count for anything. We will never be friends." She folds her arms. She doesn't know why she's angry all of a sudden; maybe it's the reality of the situation finally catching up to her.

"Bit harsh, don't you think?" he says.

"No. You still may walk free around the Wizarding world again, but there's still things that I won't forget," she tells him stubbornly.

There's a silence and she lifts her head to meet his eyes. He's staring at her, peering over his coffee cup, but she cannot read his expression. He slowly puts down the cup on the table. "Those things were done a long time ago and I am not proud of what I did."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "But you still did them!"

"It's always going to be the same with you, Granger, isn't it?" There's finally a sneer across his face, and it's the first insight to his feelings she has gotten out of the whole conversation. "It always has to be black and white. Somebody must always be good or bad. There's no in between for you there, is there? You would think that the war told you, at least, something about that."

"Don't you dare talk about the war," she hisses at him. "You have absolutely no right. You were on the other side during the war; you do not get the privilege of speaking about the war as if you were a victim. I watched my friends die that night, because your side took them away from us."

"What about my friends? Why is it for you 'good guys' that you never think about us as humans too? My friends also died that day, Granger, because there were people on your side who killed too." A flash of anger passes in his grey eyes and she knew they were both thinking about Crabbe's death they both witnessed. "Did we deserve to die as much as the people you were friends with?"

There's another pause, an awful moment where both knew she couldn't possibly say yes. Instead, she says, "There were friends of mine who died that were worth ten of you."

"Maybe. Probably. But that doesn't mean you're not seeing the world in black and white still. And you're too blind to admit it."

This seems to reignite the anger in her, and she leans across the table as she spits out, "Black and white or not, I'm not blind enough to know that I'll never, ever, forgive you for what you have done."

They look at each other for a moment, the anger slowly dying down, before he gets up abruptly. There's something in his eyes again that she cannot place, and he doesn't look back as he leaves the shop.

Warily, she finds herself staring at his empty coffee cup.

***

He doesn't turn up the next day, which is fine by her. At least, she can write in peace, for God's sake. But there's a moment when she puts her quill down and she wonders what he's doing if he's not sitting in his designated spot at the correct time. She never thought to ask him. There was never any point.

But she shakes her head to clear her mind, and she's angry with herself for that brief moment for even remotely caring, before forcing herself to write again.

She doesn't want to admit it, and her mind spins in circles at the thought, but good God, it's so much lonelier without his presence.

***

For a moment, she expects him to hesitate when he decides to show up again. She supposes she actually wants him to hesitate, to see the little side of remorse she wanted him to feel. And, for that moment, she thinks he is; when he passes her table to order his coffee without so much as a look at her.

But then, he takes the seat opposite her again, his legs stretched out in front of him and he looks at her directly in the eyes. She looks back at him, their eyes looking past the steam that billows from their cups, before she turns back to her writing. And they don't speak about their argument, but sit in the silence they shared that she had found herself so comfortable with.

***

It's only two months and a day later when things go back to how it was before the argument. Except, not exactly. Day by day, there are subtle changes to their mannerisms towards each other. She lets him slip in a swift, sarcastic comment every now and then. He allows her to talk about other issues sometimes. It starts off as little odd bits, at first. Under his breath, she hears him making comments about the people that pass by. She scolds him slightly, proclaiming that it's plain rude to do so. But, after a while, she finds herself clamping her lips together to stop herself from laughing. She knows he must notice, but he doesn't say anything about it.

And he asks questions sometimes. He wonders out loud of what she does as a job now, what she likes doing.

"Beside sitting here and talking to me," he adds, and a few months ago, she would've scowled. Now, she just laughs.

She tells him about her ambitions of campaigning about house-elf rights again. She fills him in on SPEW; how she hopes that it can make a bigger impact on the world now that she is out of school. She talks of wanting to appeal about new laws -- more specifically, put a stop to discrimination to werewolves. He asks her why werewolves, and she gives a sad smile and tells him she had a friend once that deserved more.

They don't talk about Hogwarts. They don't talk about the War. They especially don't talk about what she's writing. But he does bring up the subject of her friends, if hesitantly at first.

"They're good," she says immediately. "I mean... They're doing okay, I suppose. Harry's finding it hardest to deal at the moment still, but he's got Ginny. Ron's a bit patchy too, but... Well, they're getting there."

He doesn't say much about them. She doesn't expect him to.

"Ron still laughs slightly when I bring up SPEW," she says to him once. "He doesn't mean it in a nasty way. He and Harry exchange this smile, though. It reminds them of old times, I think. I don't expect they think it's going to work."

He nods in response.

"Do you think it'll work?" Pause. "Do you think I could get them to pass those types of laws?"

She's avoiding eye contact by pretending to write again. After a beat of silence, she looks up and finds him looking at her.

"You know, Granger," he drawls, dragging out each syllable. The words come out dry and, if she didn't know any better, it sounds like a smile is being concealed. "I think you could manage to force yourself up to Minister of Magic, if you set your mind to it. "

Her cheeks flush and she's suddenly flustered, though she can't explain why.

***

She's writing something down when she realises, stopping abruptly.

"You don't say Mudblood anymore, do you?"

"I don't know, do I?" he says in a bored voice, but there's a slight edge to it.

"No."

"Why ask questions to which you know the answers to already?" he huffs.

She shrugs. "I don't know, I wanted to hear you say it."

A pause stretches it out and she sighs, putting her quill to the parchment again.

"I don't say Mudblood anymore," he says so quietly that she's not sure she hears it properly. She hides a smile.

***

"Are you happy?"

Both of their heads jerk up and their eyes meet. He seems just as surprised as she is, even though it's his lips the words falls out of.

"What do you mean?"

He supposes it's too late to back out now, so he regains his composure and shrugs. "Are you happy? It's not a hard question. Don't tell me they named you the Brightest Witch of our Age for nothing."

"There are many ways to define being happy," she says stoutly, but she's avoiding answering. Not because of her answer, but because she has no idea what to say.

"You know what I mean, Granger."

And she knows it too that she does.

"Are you happy, Malfoy?" she challenges back.

"I'm not too sure yet." He tries to pass it off as an innocent answer, but it sounds more like a confession to her ears.

"I think I'm happy," she decides out loud. "I think I could be happier, though, y'know? Like there's something missing that's going to happen in my life. I need to figure it out first."

He nods, and they're sitting in silence again. Her quill moves on its own accord to write, but honestly, her mind is too preoccupied somewhere else.

***

"It's about the war," she says in a rush. It's abrupt and comes out as a breath, cutting across his speech swiftly, and his mouth is still open as his sentence dies in his throat. She's surprised with herself, and she thinks about how much she wants to take it back, but her eyes bore into his as she repeats herself. "It's about the war. What I'm writing, that is."

There's a pause of a silence that hangs in the air, and they're both thinking of the time that he asked her once and resulted that defining fallout. His lips part once, twice, and it's strange to see him stumble on words.

"I just -- I just have so many memories, and so many ideas in my mind, and it's all still so fresh and..." She trails off, because she doesn't know what to say, even though there are too many thoughts crammed in her head to barely voice.

He nods slowly.

"It helps me cope," she finishes. "To write about what it was like at the beginning. How it all felt. The middle. How the real battle was. How everything just became..."

Messed up, is the appropriate term, and, though she doesn't say the words, it's as clear to both of them as if it was painted in red in front of them.

His voice is hoarse, the sound scratching against the back of his throat, as he says, "And the end?"

"I haven't decided yet," she whispers across the table. And they're looking at each other, and there's a shift in the air around them, though neither wants to admit what it is. It's startling, like being dunked in cold water, and she doesn't think she can bear it much longer as she pushes her chair out, gathering her things with fumbling fingers, and she's running out of the door. 

***

It keeps her up the whole night. She had always been one to analyse things, to think things over and over again, until it drove her insane. Her thoughts only lead back to a simple statement. She's afraid to utter it out loud, in the logic that it would only end more true.

I think I like Draco Malfoy.

She couldn't have seen it coming. Liking him never could have been an option. It just wasn't her. What about logic? What about morality? What about every goddamn thing she stood for?

It's five past five in the morning when her tired eyes finally managed to slide shut. It's very literally twenty-three minutes later when the sun creeps in through her window and wakes her up all over again. She does what she hasn't done for a long time, years possibly, and pulls the covers around her head. She doesn't get up for a few hours, letting her mind work itself silly instead.

The nest of her hair remains unbrushed when she finally pushes herself out of bed and slumps over to the kitchen. The tossing-and-turning throughout the night has crumpled her hair even further, but she can't bring herself to care. She spends at least forty minutes deliberating whether she can bring herself to face him again as she chews on some toast.

She decides against it and spends the rest of the day curled up in her pajamas on her sofa, alternating between reading and Floo-ing Ginny.

***

The next day, she's absolutely determined to act normal. She leaves her home a little earlier than she would've, but she pretends to herself that she doesn't notice.

Tapping impatiently on the counter as she waits for her order, her eyes keep flicking behind her. Her coffee is placed in front of her and she's about to pay, but the waitress there speaks to her instead.

"You weren't here yesterday, were you? The young man you usually meet was sitting here longer than usual," the waitress tells her.

A few sickles fall out of her hand onto the counter in bewilderment. "Uh, was he?"

"Oh, yes," the waitress replies, picking up a sickle and handing the rest back. "He stayed until past closing time, I think. I'm not too sure, my shift ended around five o'clock, but I'm assuming he was still here. I don't know what he was doing, but he was here for ages. I thought he was waiting for you."

She's not sure what to reply and pushes the sickles into the waitress' hands. "Keep it as a tip. I'll just be -- uh -- " She doesn't finish her sentence, stammering as she picks up her coffee and walks over to her usual table.

"Well -- thank you!" the waitress calls after her cheerfully, before turning to the next customer.

The idea of him staying hours after for the fact that she hadn't come yet lingers in her mind as she collapses into the chair. Her bag containing her parchment and quill remains firmly shut, her coffee untouched, and her eyes land on the sky outside. She doesn't know how long she stays like that, utterly caught up in her thoughts, but there's someone calling her name suddenly and her coffee has long since turned cold.

"Granger -- Granger! Are you all right?"

She blinks hard and her eyes are focused now on the person sitting opposite her. She's unsure of when he got here, how long he's been sitting there, but he's trying to get her attention and her breath catches in her throat as she nods.

"I -- Yes, I suppose I just spaced out there." Her voice doesn't sound very much like her own right now.

"You weren't here yesterday," tumbles out of his mouth. The words try and sound casual, and she doesn't know when she started to be able to read him so clearly. "I thought you were ill."

"Ill? No. I didn't feel like coming yesterday." Her thoughts are still scrambled in her mind, like putting together a puzzle with a missing piece. A single missing piece, she's sure she's almost there.

His eyes flicker away from her, and it's with a jolt that she realises that he's hurt.

"I see," he says, but his voice sounds hard.

"No, you're not understanding --" She's speaking in a rush, unsure of how to phrase any of it: how she's feeling, or what's going on, or how to say it. He looks perplexed for a moment, so she takes in a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself down first.

"Are you quite sure you're all right, Granger?" he says, startled. "Have you been to see a Healer lately? I think you really should go see someone --"

\-- And it's then that it hits her with the utmost clarity.

"I forgive you," she says calmly, and her whole mind stops for a moment. "No, scratch that. I forgave you. I forgave you a long time ago, Draco Malfoy."

"You... Forgive me," he repeats slowly, his voice and expression carefully masked.

"Yes. For Hogwarts, and being a bully, and choosing the wrong side in the war, and being a completely unpleasant person in general, and everything else. I forgave you for all of that. It's just taken me a while to realise." She's breathing heavily, barely noticing her spilt coffee now.

She doesn't know what she's expecting him to say, but she doesn't expect, "Okay."

"What do you mean 'okay'?" She frowns, her adrenaline wearing off fast.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know!" Frustration bubbles inside her. "Something other than that!"

He shrugs, adding fuel to her fire. 

It's on trembling legs that she stands, her hands shaky as she grabs her bag, mumbling furiously. "What was I supposed to expect? -- Sodding bastard, of course you would say something like that --"

She's stumbling as she quickens her speed, hazardously pushing her chair back, because she's hurt, goddamn, she's thinking how stupid she must have been to actually give him a chance, it was all just a waste of her time, she didn't know that she could be so wrong, and oh god oh god oh god. Damn it all.

She refuses to look at him in the eye, but he's not moving, he's just watching her leave, and she thinks, well, good riddance then. Her arm wrenches the door with force, and she's walking so quickly that she bumps into people as she scrambles to get away from such embarrassment, and she's disgusted with herself to find tears forming in her eyes, blinding her.

"Granger!" She hears her name being called behind her, and she walks faster. "For Merlin's sake, Granger, wait!"

At the last moment, she whirls around, her hair flying out behind her. "What?" she demands, and there's a wobble in her voice that she won't admit to. "What do you want? Do you want me to say sorry? To take it all back?" 

He's stopped in front of her now, and he's looking at her with such intensity that she takes a step back.

"Oh, hell, no!" springs out of her mouth before she can help it. His eyebrows raise. "You sure as hell better not be thinking about kissing me whilst I'm talking, Draco Malfoy, I swear to God, and don't look at me like that! I've read and watched enough to know how this is going to go and what you're thinking and, I swear, I will hex you if you interrupt me by kissing me!"

There's a silence, her chest heaving heavily. And then --

"So you don't want me to kiss you?" he drawls, and his look is now calculating.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean -- look what you've done!" She's all pink in the face, flustered, and she can't even bring herself to be angry anymore. 

"I'm kidding," he says after a beat. There's a tug at the corner of his lips.

She makes a noise, like a cat being stepped on. She's still avoiding his eyes.

A long sigh. "I'm sorry."

His apology, sounding even sincere, makes her head turn to him, eyes wide in surprise. "Oh?"

"You're making this more difficult than it has to be," he comments, a glare directed at her. "You... surprised me, that's all."

She waits for him to continue and, when he doesn't, she scoffs. "Is that it?"

"We can't all talk as much as you can," he scowls, and she supposes that's the best she'll get out of it. She'll take it.

"Coffee?" she offers hesitantly. She blows a strand of her hair from her face. 

She doesn't really know when the half-smile he gives her starts making her heart beat faster.

***

"You're the grey," she says a month later, pulling away from his lips with a gasp. He tastes of bitterness and heat, and she struggles to think. He gives her a look of disbelief and confusion. "In the black and white. You're the grey."

"Almost full marks," he smirks. "I'm the grey. You're the grey. We're all the grey in war."

"We're all the grey," she repeats, and then, his lips are back on hers and she can't breathe all over again.


End file.
